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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25245514">Vox Angelorum</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizleenimbus/pseuds/lizleenimbus'>lizleenimbus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon-adjacent, Case Fic, M/M, Singer!Castiel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:46:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25245514</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizleenimbus/pseuds/lizleenimbus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a mysterious new band in town, and people are falling to their knees to see it. What brings Dean to the theatre to investigate though, is that a few of them aren't getting back up.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Vox Angelorum</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>WARNING: this is an UNFINISHED fic, okay? But I love it and am reworking it... and as I am not a full-fledged writer by any means, I'm using it as practice to try and get longer works done. :) Thanks for your patience.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He could hear the dull throb of electronic music even through the thick, chromed steel of the Impala. </p><p>An assembly of visibly-excited patrons of all persuasions were queued under a large marquee with the words “<em> Vox Angelorum - Three Nights Only” </em> lit in Tron blue. Even though last time he checked it was early December, it was like Halloween, Comic Con (or both) had thrown up all over the joint. Some wore ensembles of pure white, while others donned colourful contact lenses, even crazier hair, and some others still, wore almost nothing at all. Stranger still, some guests wore the modest head-to-toe vestments demanded by strictest Christian denominations, patiently waiting for entry even while they shuffled uncomfortably against their wilder, latex-clad neighbours. </p><p>It was part dance club, part Church luncheon and part fetish party, and either way, Dean wasn’t into it. A sure sign of age, if ever there was one.</p><p>He steeled himself as he put Baby into park, a safe, steeply-paid distance away from potential drunken bottle bashers. He reached for his phone. </p><p>“Hey. I’m here and it’s Douche City, man.”</p><p><em> “Well, dat’s where the case is subosiby, so deal,” </em> crackled the tired voice of his younger brother. <em> “Dib you bring your garter belt? Whips?”  </em></p><p>“Can it, phlegm-face.” </p><p>Sam’s congested chuckling breached him, and Dean grinned despite himself in the sanctuary of his classic car.  </p><p>
  <em> “Just be careful, Deab. Dere’s nothing specific to look out for, so it could be anythig… but the strange occurrences range from catatonia to some people experiencing something like the Rapture, and get this, one guy even apparently went up in a ball of fire, dis one article said… poor dude had his insides burned from the inside out. Police couldn’t fibe the cause. Blamed faulty electrical wiring.” </em>
</p><p>“Well, considering the music, I might be inclined to light myself on fire too. Ears first.” Dean griped. </p><p>
  <em> “You’re such an olb mab.”  </em>
</p><p>“Whatever, Sammy. Is there even a case here? It just sounds like a bunch of rave-kids coming off their uppers. I mean, we thought there were a bunch of cases in Florida, but it was just <em> Florida, </em> and I did NOT paint these nut-crushing pants on just for a bunch of pill-popping losers getting off to mass-marketed church iconography.”</p><p>
  <em> “Wow, using your big words eh, Deab?”  </em>
</p><p>“Shut up, bitch. I read.” </p><p><em> “Sure you do, jerk.” </em> Sam retorted amicably. <em> “Is Charlie dere yet?”  </em></p><p>“She said she’d meet me outside. Haven’t seen her yet.”</p><p>There was a brief pause where Dean contemplated all the poor choices in his life that might have led him to this moment. He bowed his head in discouragement while his sibling’s snotty reflux reverberated against his ear. He could have used Sam’s backup on this one, but he wasn’t so sure that seeing his brother’s circus stilt legs covered in skin-tight fabric wouldn’t cause his own retinas to spontaneously combust. Maybe it was a win that Sammy was currently experiencing the worst man-cold in history.  Still, even though having the right gear and the right cover for a hunt was important, this case was pushing the boundaries, as few and far between as Dean’s were in terms of monster-hunting. He stared dejectedly down at his tight jeans and readjusted his cloistered junk for the hundredth time that evening. How the hell those hipsters managed it was beyond his comprehension. </p><p>A flare of red hair scurrying for the Impala interrupted his somber contemplations however, and a flash of recognition compelled him to unlock the doors. </p><p>“Gotta go Sammy. Rest up, I’ll keep you posted.” </p><p>“Alright, be safe.” </p><p>“Yeahp. Later.” </p><p>Charlie casually exploded into the vehicle, as was her wont, and crushed Dean in an immediate and inescapable chokehold of a hug. His adored adoptive little sister was one of the few who held an unlimited free pass for those, so he indulged her.</p><p>“‘Sup bitch!” she chirped cheerfully. </p><p>“Hey Charlie,” Dean greeted with a smirk on his lips. “You look…. <em> special.”  </em></p><p>The ginger had strayed far from her usual geek tees and jeans, and had opted for something a few palettes darker. Dean could not recall for the life of him ever seeing her in <em> leggings, </em> but there it was, a violet galaxy print clinging to her skinny gams topped with a loose-fitting black knit which exposed her shoulder blades. Her bright eyes were framed with cat-eyed charcoal, and her lips dipped in a rich mauve. A simple black choker adorned her neck, and a pair of what Dean could only refer to, in his limited grasp of fashion, as <em> bitch boots </em>sporting more buckles than a paratrooper’s pack completed the look.</p><p>“Psssht,” she snarked, “I look <em> hot </em>.” </p><p>“No doubt kid, no doubt,” he conceded, “But what gives, I thought we were meeting at the entrance?” </p><p>“Well, I figured you might choke, so when I saw the Batmobile I thought I’d come over and lend you a helping hand.” </p><p>Dean was about to argue that - because Dean Winchester did <em> not </em>choke - but when Charlie brandished a small pink bag with a silver zipper, he immediately reconsidered. </p><p>“Nope. That ain’t happening.” </p><p>“Oh come on, Handmaiden. We’re under cover aren’t we?! It’s not any worse than when we visit Moondor!!” she challenged. </p><p>“No! Battling orcs is one thing… but becoming an Avon lady in public is another! I put on<em> the pants </em> Charlie,” he hissed with all the disdain usually reserved for lesser sewer demons, “and that’s <em> it </em>. A man’s gotta have his limits!” </p><p>The redhead rolled her eyes, emphatically unimpressed. </p><p>“Oof, any more toxic and your masculinity is gonna warrant a hazmat suit,” she jeered. </p><p>“At least it would be more comfortable,” Dean grumbled sourly. “My nads are gonna shrivel and die.”</p><p>“Listen, you look about as ‘scene’ as a lumberjack, Dean. You’re gonna make us in ten seconds.” </p><p>“Charlie, I’m definitely <em> not </em> the weirdest person here, in case you haven’t noticed.” </p><p>Dean felt a surge of satisfaction as Charlie glanced over and raised her brows in surprise at the queue of <em> actual </em>nuns waiting patiently by the entrance. </p><p>“Ugh, let me HAVE this,” Charlie pleaded, pawing at his habitual green plaid overshirt. Her puppy eyes could rival Sam’s… or maybe the traitor had taught her.</p><p>“Alright, fine…..”  </p><p>Dean squeaked in protest but had learned long ago not to argue with Charlie, lest she choose an even worse outcome. After all, had he not complained, he might have gotten to keep his precious flannel. Regardless, it was too late and the merciless tyrant had finally peeled it off him, leaving him feeling all kinds of exposed.</p><p>“Better,” she mused, observing him as one might an unfinished masterpiece. “But…” </p><p>By the time Charlie was done with him, she’d wrestled Dean out of two subsequent layers, until he’d been shucked down to his black undershirt. He was also wearing honest-to-god eyeliner (it enhanced his scowl, she claimed) and donning a “distressed” hairstyle which had consisted of her pretty much shake-and-baking his head until she was satisfied. Charlie had spared him the lipstick, but it had been a close call.</p><p>...It was a damn good thing he loved her. </p><p>
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